


Deep Waters

by Elenothar



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Bartender AU, Cap/Ironman Reverse Bang, M/M, lots and lots of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2012-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-05 07:26:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/403871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elenothar/pseuds/Elenothar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Peggy breaks up with him Steve finds himself searching for solace in a bar. Little does he expect to find someone else to love instead - and a whole new load of problems. For one, the genius bartender isn't too keen on being romanced. Bartender!AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deep Waters

**Author's Note:**

> Lovely art made by essouffle here: http://essouffle.livejournal.com/10894.html
> 
> A lot of thanks to muccamukk for the amazing beta job!

It’s a sunny afternoon, a slight breeze bringing just the right amount of relief to an otherwise scorching day. In fact, it’s possibly the first really nice day in spring. In other words, a perfect day.

Steve has never felt so personally affronted by the weather before.

Glaring up at the sun accusingly, he continues his walk through his neighbourhood in Brooklyn, steadfastly ignoring all the smiling, content people milling around him.  He doesn’t quite begrudge them their happiness, not when he knows that it’s not their fault his girlfriend of three years has just broken up with him, but he has to admit, to his shame, that it’s a near thing. The stab of pain running through him at the thought already feels familiar, even though it has only been an hour since his world has been turned upside down.

A dog charges by him, barking, in pursuit of a stray butterfly. Steve nearly smiles. Suddenly he finds himself wishing Peggy had chosen a different day to break the news. A day of rain and roiling clouds and deserted streets. (And shouldn’t he have been wishing that she hadn’t broken up with him at all instead?)

A need to be somewhere more private, to be alone, takes hold of him. He could, of course, go back to his apartment, but the thought of going to a place that would evoke so many memories of _her_ is near physically painful. That leaves his favourite place in New York, the park (too many people), and the bar he usually frequents (too high a chance that he could bump into someone he knows).

Sighing, he picks up his pace again – only to stop a second later, gaze fixed on the overhead sign proclaiming _Deep Waters_. The corresponding building front is small and blends into the surrounding buildings with a similarly unassuming make, making it barely noticeable for the usual hurried passers-by. For a moment he wavers, indecisive, but really, his day couldn’t possibly get any worse, right? He pushes open the door.

The bar is a cosy one-roomer, not small, but small enough to be homely with its reddish wood furnishings and gleaming surfaces. It is also completely deserted.

 He slowly makes his way over to the counter, enjoying the deep silence permeating the room. He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there, lost in his increasingly depressing thoughts, when a voice yanks him back to reality.

“Hey, buddy. You could’ve called, you know.”

Steve raises startled eyes to meet the source of the pleasantly smooth tenor. For a second he doesn’t quite believe his eyes – he blinks, but the apparition is still there. Behind the counter a man lounges, mussed pitch-black hair sticking up in all directions, a smirk on his lips and a twinkle in his warm brown eyes. Falling into what he has always termed his ‘artist gaze’ (he pushes away the renewed pang of pain at the reminder that Peggy had never been comfortable with it, claiming he was ‘ogling’ instead of simply observing as any serious artist would) his eyes flick over the machine-oil stained white wife beater, the smooth plane of his muscled arms, the graceful arch of his neck.

He has always had the talent of seeing the beauty in things – and people.

Several spontaneous (and probably far too private) questions swirl around in his head, but what emerges is, “Why is no one else here?”

The man looks at him a little askance, raising an eyebrow. “It’s four pm. A little early for most people to go to a bar, I would say.”

Steve stares at him. Four pm? Right. Of course. How had he missed that? His mortification is quickly eclipsed by curiosity, however.

“Why’re you open then?”

The man just shrugs. “I usually come here early. I figure if I’m here the bar may as well be open.” He flashes him a quick smile. “You know, in case some lost soul like you wanders in. I’m Tony, by the way.”

“Steve,” he replies, automatically shaking the offered hand, surprised to feel callouses on Tony’s hand. Before he can think of anything else to say, Tony is flitting here and there behind the counter, until he places a glass filled with some red liquid before him.

“I didn’t even order yet,” Steve protests half-heartedly.

“Just try it,” Tony says, voice surprisingly gentle.

Cautiously taking a small sip, Steve nearly gasp with the sensation of hot, burning fire, tinged with a melancholy sweetness running down his throat. It feels cleansing, somehow. “What is this?” he asks, astonished, sipping again.

“I call it the ‘Heartbreak Tonic’,” Tony answers sombrely. One look at his face and Steve knows that he isn’t joking.

“How…how did you know…?” he hesitantly ventures, wondering how obvious he really is.

Tony’s smile is just on this side of bitter. “Believe me, I see a lot of people after bad break-ups. After some time you can just recognize it.”

Steve grimaces slightly. “It wasn’t precisely a _bad_ break-up,” he mumbles into his glass.

When he looks up again, Tony is looking at him, his eyes a mixture of sympathetic and sad. “You want to talk about it?”

No. No, he most emphatically doesn’t want to talk about it. But apparently his mouth has a different opinion because before he can really process what’s going on he’s pouring his heart out to this virtual stranger. _Why_ he he’s doing so when he even refused to talk to his actual friends about it, is beyond him at the moment, but he can’t deny that it makes him feel better. Maybe it’s some sort of bartender superpower, to get depressed people to confide in them – ah, how far he’s fallen.

So Steve talks and talks, his turbulent emotions draining more and more with every word, and Tony simply looks at him reassuringly, listening attentively.

“And you know what the worst thing is?” Steve asks, finally at the end of his story. His voice is bitterer than he’s accustomed to hearing it. “I didn’t even notice anything was wrong. I thought everything was going well – great even. The first I heard of any trouble was when she broke up with me.” His mouth twists in a mockery of a smile. “What does that say about me, I wonder?”

Tony’s eyes are far away, deep with a sorrow that Steve thinks looks vaguely familiar. “It has to be better than knowing things aren’t working out every damn minute. To wake up to knowing that for all that you love her more than anything it’s bound to break sooner or later and you’re helpless to stop it.”

His eyes refocus on Steve’s face, still sharp with pain, his voice a contrast of gentleness in comparison. “You’re a good man Steve. Don’t forget that you have a life to live past your first big love.”

Tony ends up insisting on escorting Steve, who is more than a little bit drunk (according to Tony he shouldn’t be able to walk at all after two of the Heartbreak-Tonics and he nearly laughs at that), home, despite his protests that he’ll be just fine (though he can’t deny that it feels good to be cared for, even by someone who should be a stranger, for all that he doesn’t feel like one). When they reach his apartment and Tony turns to leave, it suddenly dawns to Steve that he hasn’t paid for his drinks, but Tony just laughs and tells him not to worry about it. And if he’s really that bothered by it, he could drop by any time to sort it out.

Long after Tony’s gone, Steve is lying in his bed, staring at the unassuming beige ceiling. He still feels lost, adrift in a world which bears no resemblance to where he had been yesterday, but when he closes his eyes he sees pictures of a black-haired man and hears the echo of a warm laugh.

He doesn’t dream.

*

It only takes him two days to find his way back to the pub. It hadn’t even been a conscious decision to return, but at some point during his evening walk he finds himself in front of the little bar anyway.

As soon as he’s entered the crowded room, buzzing with the patrons’ conversations, he’s greeted by an enthusiastic, “Steve!”

Tony is standing behind the bar, beaming at him. “I was wondering if you’d ever show your pretty face again!”

His smile is so infectious that Steve can’t help but grin back. “Well, I couldn’t leave you hanging, now could I?” he returns easily, sliding onto a bar stool. “Besides I still need to settle my debt.”

Tony looks a little startled at that. “You’re still on about that? Most people would be happy about a free drink.”

“I…” Steve starts, feeling a little uneasy all of sudden. “I just don’t like it. It feels too much like…cheating you somehow, you know?”

Tony looks at him thoughtfully for a moment. “What do you do for a living?”

“Um…excuse me?”

The barkeeper just raises one eyebrow in a clearly derisive – or is it challenging? – gesture, which obviously says ‘You heard me the first time’. Steve thinks about it for a moment, but what could it hurt, really? Besides he likes Tony.

“I’m a sketch artist,” he says.

“Hmm,” Tony utters, looking surprised. His eyes flick over Steve’s muscled body.  “You don’t really look like the type…any good?”

He hesitates for a second (he hates self-advertising, but then again, false modesty isn’t any better and he _is_ good), then nods slightly.

“Didn’t expect any different.” Tony smiles at him, pointing to his left. “See that wall over there? Draw me something to hang up there and you can forget about the drinks – and get them for free every time you visit. Sound good?”

“Deal,” Steve agrees, unthinking. There’s something about Tony that just makes him want to agree to everything he’s saying - and now he has a reason to be around for longer. Not to mention that he is, while not quite gasping for money yet, not exactly swimming in it, either. Painting and sketching definitely isn’t the most lucrative job one could imagine, even though some of his paintings do sell rather nicely. It never occurs to him that he might be overpaying the bartender.

Besides, there’s always Tony’s bright smile at his acquiescence. 

“Pepper will be happy. She’s been badgering me about putting something up there for months,” Tony comments. Perhaps noticing Steve’s blank look, he adds, “Oh, right, you haven’t met Pepper yet! You absolutely have to meet Pepper. Everyone here knows Pepper, you need to meet her.”

“It’s not necessary-“ Steve begins, blushing slightly but Tony is already calling for her loudly over the din. As none of the patrons seem to pay him any mind, they’re apparently used to Tony’s odd bartending style.

When he looks back at Tony, a gorgeous red-haired woman is standing next to him, a slightly exasperated look on her face.

“Yes, Tony?”

In lieu of answering Tony drags her around the counter (Steve can’t help but notice that she’s wearing quite dangerous looking red high heels) towards Steve.

“Pepper, this is Steve. Steve, Pepper,” he introduces and they shake hands. Her grip is firmer than he expected.

“Pleased to meet you,” he murmurs, smiling. She responds in kind, but her sharp blue eyes are cataloguing every nuance of him - judging.

And then she smiles back warmly, giving Steve the distinct impression that he’s just passed some sort of test he hadn’t even known he was taking. He’s pleased to have done so nevertheless.

When he jogs home that night, thoughts of Peggy are surprisingly far from his mind.

*

He ends up drawing a view of the bar’s counter in reddish but muted charcoals, which fits in nicely with the hardwood all around. Tony loudly declares his undying love, Pepper is quietly appreciative, and even Natasha (the other waitress, also a red-head – if Pepper’s high heels were dangerous, hers looked like they could rip your foot apart if she stepped on it) made a vague noise of assent, which was more than he’d expected from the normally immovable woman.

For a short, irrationally terrifying moment when the picture is hung up Steve thinks that now he doesn’t have an excuse to come here anymore, until he remembers that ‘here’ is a public bar for all that it feels much more private and intimate.

So he comes back the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. Usually he finds the time in the evening, when he’s already finished his paintings for the day. Sometimes, however, he brings his sketch-pad with him. He draws the bar, the patrons, Pepper and Natasha, but more often than not he ends up drawing Tony (though he steadfastly avoids thinking about the implications of that). Sometimes he comes and just talks to Tony for an hour (or two or three – Tony is an incredibly easy person to talk to). And sometimes, on his worse days, he just comes and sits quietly at the bar, nursing a beer for the whole evening. On those days Tony usually leaves him alone, perhaps sensing that that is what Steve needs right then, though he’s always there with a sympathetic ear.

Before he knows it he has been going to the little pub nearly every day for a month, getting to know Pepper, Natasha, and most of all Tony.

*

It’s a Friday, and Steve is early again. It has become a sort of tradition for him to come at odd hours, since he usually doesn’t want to drink anything anyway.

Though he has gotten fairly used to Tony’s odd mixture of stylish elegance and hard-worn practicality when it comes to clothing, an actual leather work-man’s apron with scorch marks everywhere does seem to stretch it a little.

“Er…Tony? Unless you’re mixing explosives into your drinks, I don’t think you need that thing,” he points out.

“What?” Tony has that distracted look in his eyes again. The one that means that he’s going through calculations in his mind that the average human being wouldn’t even be able to name, let alone understand. He looks down himself. “Oh, that. It’s not for bar-stuff. I’m building a jet thruster.”

Steve stares at him. “You what?!”

“Oh right,” Tony exclaims, slapping his forehead, “I haven’t shown you my workshop yet! Come on, Steve!”

He leads Steve around the back of the counter and through a door, which Steve always thought lead to the stock room. He was wrong.

The back room looks like something out of a Star Wars movie. Or rather, it looks like something that _should_ have been in a Star Wars movie. There are tools and gadgets strewn around everywhere and every table is adorned by at least one shiny (and that’s about as far as he gets in his professional evaluation – technology has never been his strong suit) computer, though there’s a cluster of them on the middle rotunda of work-benches. The room also houses an honest to God AI, as Steve has to discover a second later, jumping in shock.

Tony grins at his startled expression. “That’s just JARVIS, Steve. He runs this room and my life, basically. I built him a few years ago.”

“You built and AI. And,” Steve makes a sweeping gesture around the room, “all of this.”

“Sure. I told you I’m a bit of a technological genius.”

This is, in fact, the first he hears about Tony being a scientist/engineer of any kind as well as a bartender, but, in retrospect, he thinks he might’ve guessed. Not necessarily because Tony’s meticulous about mixing drinks and invents new flavours basically once a week, but rather because he’s always fiddling with some appliance or other, his hands always in motion. It goes without saying that he’d have to be a genius at it, too.

 “No, I think you neglected to mention that. This is _really_ impressive.”

Tony looks pleased. Right up until Steve puts his foot in his mouth and asks, “Why don’t you do this for a living? I mean, you obviously love it…”

Tony’s face closes off faster than he can blink. “It’s just a hobby. I like bartending.”

And he walks off. Steve looks after him, discomforted. If his instincts aren’t completely wrong Tony has just lied to him for the first time.

*

Steve has found that for all his intelligence and wit, Tony is also the master of awkward questions and non-sequiturs.

One minute they’re talking about the newest developments in robotics (or at least Tony is, and Steve is listening because he has no knowledge of the topic to speak of), the next Tony asks him, “So, have you ever painted naked pictures?”

It is telling as to how used to Tony’s eccentricities he’s already gotten that Steve isn’t too surprised by the question.

“I had to in college, but it’s not one of my favourite styles. And it’s called an ‘art nude’, by the way.”

Tony stares at him, eyes wide in shock. “But I thought being able to ogle beautiful nude women was the only reason why anyone would want to study art!”

Steve groans, barely resisting the urge to bang his head on the counter. “As outlandish as it sounds, most of us just _like_ to paint, Tony.”

“But that’s boring!”

He rolls his eyes. “Which is why you aren’t an artist. Now, what’s this about a new Transformers movie I hear?”

Predictably Tony immediately launches into a full-fledged rant on the lack of realism in the movies. Steve sighs in relief – train of thought successfully diverted.

*

The first time Tony visits Steve at his apartment, he’s in the midst of a crisis – and quite literally at that. To think that it had so innocently started with him trying to warm up some noodles in the microwave. Now,  five minutes later, the damn thing is billowing alarming amounts of black smoke and refuses to open (though, somehow, some soot _had_ made it out nevertheless and happily settled down on – one would never guess - him). It certainly isn’t the kind of scene he wants Tony to barge in on. It’s even less the kind of scene he wants Tony to see when visiting his apartment for the first time (because really, could he look any more pathetic than this?). Which is probably why it happens exactly like that. Figures.

One minute he’s coughing into his sleeve, fumbling to somehow manage to open the microwave with his free arm, the next someone is pounding his back in an entirely unhelpful way. When he turns his he comes face to face with a _very_ amused Tony (a saying concerning cats and canaries spontaneously comes to mind).

“Having a slight problem here, Steve?” the intruder smirks, his eyes sparkling with poorly suppressed mirth.

“How,” he starts, still coughing, “did you even get in here?”

Smirk widening, Tony dramatically waves a key around in the air. “You forgot your spare key at the bar again.”

“Oh,” Steve says, a little stupidly, strangely mesmerized by the flashing glint of the dangling metal.

A bang from behind him shakes him back to reality. Muttering a few choice words under his breath, he turns back to the entirely too troublesome microwave, but before he can do anything Tony steps around him into the cloud of smoke and starts fiddling with the door mechanism.

Steve squints through the smoke, doubtfully. “What’re you doing?”

“Fixing your microwave, of course. What did _you_ think?” comes the muffled reply. Before Steve can frame his doubts as to the viability of that plan into words, the opening of the microwave door, which he could’ve _sworn_ was irreparably stuck just a minute ago, is heralded by a soft click.

An arm extends towards him out of the smoke cloud. “Hand me a pencil.”

Steve is still so surprised that he doesn’t even complain at the absence of a please in that sentence (he’s been trying to get Tony out of the habit of just ordering people about – with unsurprisingly limited success as of yet) and simply does as he’s told (though it’s beyond him why Tony would need a pencil, of all things, to fix a microwave).

Whatever he’s doing, at any rate, seems to be effective, since the microwave ceases to emit new smoke a minute later, and is declared fully functional again not too long after that.

When Steve asks how the hell he’d managed that, Tony just smugly says, “Didn’t I tell you that I’m a technological genius?”

Now that he mentions it, yes, he had, that time in the workshop behind the bar, but Steve had utterly failed to grasp the extent of Tony’s practical knowledge then.

Something of what he’s thinking must have shown in his face, for Tony’s smug expression morphs into an oddly sincere smile. “I’ll tell you what, I can give you my number  and any time you have small emergencies like this you can call me so I can come fix it, okay?”

Reflexively Steve starts to mumble, “You don’t really need to-“

But Tony has already snagged his cell-phone and is entering his number. He flashes him another smile. “Don’t ruin my fun, Steve. This _is_ my hobby.”

Privately Steve greatly doubts that fixing boring kitchen appliances is really something Tony wants to do when he can just create magnificent stuff in his workshop, but he lets it slide. Far be it from him to stifle Tony’s fit of altruism. Not to mention that he _is_ rather hopeless when it comes to most pieces of technology.

*

A few weeks later Tony has the _brilliant_ idea of having a ‘company picnic’. The list of four attendees, even Tony has to admit, is rather scarce, but he’s determined to have fun anyway. Not that anyone else’s enthusiasm for the idea is overwhelming, but once Tony has an idea stuck in his head it needs more than even the combined might of Pepper and Natasha to stop him from carrying it out.

Despite the expectation of much awkwardness to follow, Steve actually doesn’t mind. He _likes_ spending time with Tony and incidentally it is a nice, sunny day for a picnic in Central Park. (Steve did point out beforehand that there’re several viable parks in Brooklyn, but _of course_ Tony has to make them all take the underground to Central Park anyway.)

“So why’s he here?” Natasha asks coolly, somehow making the simple act of spreading a picnic blanket, seem vaguely threatening. Him being the only male attendee except for Tony, whose right to be here is fairly unquestionable, though Natasha looks like she would like to do so anyway, it’s fairly obvious who she’s talking about.

“Because I like Steve, and a company picnic should have at least four people, don’t you think?” Tony responds cheerfully, entirely unfazed.

“Not as if we’re much of a company to begin with,” Natasha mumbles. Tony blissfully ignores her, rooting around in his (or someone’s, at least) pack.

“Oh look! Brownies!”

Steve can’t help the silly grin threatening to split his face in two.

Half an hour later he’s ingested far more sugar than is probably good for him, gotten into a debate over Brooklyn Dodgers versus Yankees with Tony (who claims to be totally uninterested in sports, but makes a passionate case for his favourite team nonetheless),  and has gleefully watched Pepper and Natasha arguing over the best ways to manage Tony.

The man in question is lounging on his back, his face a perfect mix of (unconvincing) innocence and long-suffering patience. Predictably, no one is fooled.

“Hand me the water bottle, Pepper?” he asks, eyes closed.

“I do think you’re old enough to manage getting it yourself,” she retorts, long used to his assumptive ways. (Incidentally not coddling him is one of the things she and Natasha definitely agree on).

Tony sighs theatrically. “Heartless woman.”

Steve’s amusement at Tony’s antics changes into alarm in the blink of an eye when the other man while getting up, nearly collapsing to the ground. Before he can even think of doing something, Pepper is by Tony’s side like a flash, steadying him with what looks suspiciously like practiced ease.

A second later the moment has passed; Tony is standing straight on his own, and Pepper sits down again.

“Tony, are you okay?” Steve asks, concerned – for all that he looks fine _now_ , he definitely didn’t look that way a moment ago.

But Tony just waves his hand in nonchalant dismissal. “Yeah, fine. I just got up a little too fast. You know how it is.”

No, he doesn’t know _how it is_. Steve’s circulation and blood sugar are just fine, and he’s pretty sure the kind of dizziness Tony is talking about should look less dramatic than what just happened.

The thinly-veiled concern in Pepper’s eyes only adds to his unease, but seeing the forbidding look on Tony’s face, he lets the matter drop. And though he watches him like a hawk during the rest of their little outing, he can’t see anything wrong with him. Satisfied, he sets his concerns aside for the time being.

*

Once, Steve forgets his sketchbook in the bar. When he reclaims it the next day, Tony has scrawled ridiculously complicated formulas all over it in a fit of brilliance. He tells him later, even looking a little sheepish, that it had been the nearest available surface.

Steve makes him replace the sketchbook out of principle – but he keeps the one marred with science anyway. (Even a little look into Tony’s mind is worth keeping.)

*

Tony has invaded his apartment again. It’s Tuesday morning and Steve actually has things to do, in this case a commission that’s due tomorrow, so he just lets the other man roam his apartment, inspecting all the random items strewn about (God knows Tony likes sticking his nose into everything – at least he won’t be bored).

He’s just shading in the background when Tony’s voice disrupts the silence. “Do you use these?”

“Hmm, what?” He looks at Tony, who’s standing next to his small collection of weight-lifting equipment.  “Oh…yes. It’s a habit of mine.”

Tony still looks interested, a curious gleam in his eyes, but Steve has no desire whatsoever to get into the subject of his past weakness, least of all with Tony. A scrawny kid from Brooklyn doesn’t stand much of a chance against the bullies of the world, after all.

Thankfully Tony lets the matter drop without further comment. Steve goes back to his sketching, relieved.

Half an hour of silence ensues. In retrospect, Steve really should have found that suspicious. But he doesn’t and is caught completely off guard when Tony finally speaks again.

“These are really beautiful, you know.”

There’s something in the other man’s voice, some emotion that immediately makes him look up from his work. For a second his lungs seem to forget to pump air, as he catches sight of what exactly is resting in Tony’s lap – his sketchbook. The sketchbook he usually takes with him to the pub, to be exact. And it is opened to one of his portraits of Tony.

He can practically feel his face reddening (a nice and utterly embarrassing shade of scarlet, no doubt). Marching over to the couch, he takes the sketchbook from Tony’s lap and closes it with a little more force than necessary. “I suppose it would be a waste of breath to remind you that some things are private?”

“Of course,” Tony smiles, but there’s something subtly off about it.

It takes Steve a moment to realize that there’s sadness in his eyes.

*

Their first picnic heralds the start of a series of excursions, mostly thought up by Tony, though Pepper sometimes chips in an idea or two (Natasha usually just sighs and goes along with everything stonily, but Steve gets the impression that she secretly enjoys their outings, too, just doesn’t want to compromise her scary reputation).

As more weeks pass he comes to look forward to those times as a refuge from his day to day life (paying the bills, avoiding Peggy, just the usual). He doesn’t really hang out with his old friends anymore – most of them are Peggy’s friends, too, or were hers in the first place – so they soon also make up the entirety of his social encounters.

It takes him an embarrassingly long time to realize that somehow he has made friends in this unlikely group of people.

He has just made that leap when his whole world is upended - _again_.

*

Good grief, he’s in love with Tony.

*

The revelation that he’s been prey to a spectacular case of denial for weeks, months even, arrives in a surprisingly anticlimactic fashion. Any romantic or story writer would have been simply aghast, he’s sure, to hear that the great moment takes place on a perfectly normal Tuesday afternoon, over a perfectly normal diet coke, during a perfectly normal discussion about the perfectly normal topic of which cell phone is the best on the market right now.

Steve takes a sip of his coke, looking at Tony, who is prattling on about the new Stark phone, over the rim of his glass, just letting the sound of his voice wash over him. He is watching Tony gesturing animatedly with his elegant hands, sees the afternoon sun’s golden light up his unruly mop of hair, is fascinated by the sparkle in his eyes, and he catches himself thinking _God, he’s beautiful_.

There, in that moment, he realizes that his appreciation, in truth, goes far beyond artistic appraisal. Even that it goes farther than just mere physical beauty and attraction. He is in love with Tony. He’s in love with the most impossible, genius, kind, _good_ man he’s ever known.

It takes his breath away. He isn’t even aware that he’s frozen, staring at Tony, until the man in question prods him gently, enquiring if he wanted to go find his brain wherever he seemed to have dropped it or if he would rather continue giving his best imitation of a monkey in human form who is doped to his eyeballs.

Huffing in mock-upset, Steve prods him back as nonchalantly as possible when he’s completely panicking inside over just having realized that he’d like to shag the brains out of the man in front of him, who also happens to be his _best friend_ and possibly completely straight. Because as great as the first moment of revelation is, there always comes a second one armed with a wagon-load of ‘what ifs’ and ‘this could go wrong in so many ways’ right behind.

He is, rather understandably in his opinion, more than a little distracted throughout the rest of the day

*

Nothing much changes. Their meetings continue, Steve still comes to the pub as often as possible, and everyone behaves as usual. Except now he _knows_. It’s not the same for him, even though he does his best to act normally. Whereas before Tony had, admittedly, been on his mind a lot, now Steve can barely think of anyone – or anything, really – else. All of his life is being eclipsed by Tony. And he doesn’t know what to do about it.

In hindsight, with those conditions, it isn’t such a surprise that when he opens the Saturday edition of the New York Times in the pub, and reads the headline ‘Stark Industries Announce New Stark Phone’ it suddenly clicks.

“Tony,” he starts, keeping his voice even by sheer dint of stubbornness, “what _is_ your last name?”

From where she’s sitting on the other side of the counter, Pepper looks up from her book, commenting smugly “I told you he’d get it sooner or later. Pay up, Natasha.”

Torn between spluttering in indignation that his obliviousness had been the topic of a bet, and laughing at the sight of Natasha’s sour face as she hands over fifty bucks, he decides to do neither (the first would only make him look ridiculous and the other would be potentially dangerous for his health) and raises his eyebrow at Tony in a silent challenge to explain. Or maybe just in an attempt to conceal the irrational hurt at Tony having willingly kept this from him.

Tony, of course, notices anyway. He sighs, a pained little sound that makes Steve’s heart contract uncomfortably. “Yes, I am Tony Stark.”

Steve has to swallow the biting response on the tip of his tongue. It wouldn’t do to get upset now. “How come you never told me?”

Tony’s answering laugh is far too bitter. “It’s not exactly the thing you mention during small talk. Oh look the weather is nice isn’t it, and hey by the way, I’m Tony Stark. Yeah, that would go over well.”

Steve doesn’t point out that they haven’t indulged in any proper _small talk_ for months (one of the side-effects of talking to a genius, he supposes). Frowning, he asks. “Why wouldn’t that go well?”

“ _Because_ ,” Tony says, looking at him slightly incredulously, “half of the time I get pity – my ‘tragic past’,” the words sound like a curse in his mouth, “ and all that. The other half I just get looked at like I’m the lowest scum on earth because of my _reputation_.”

Steve is sure he’s never heard anyone put so much sarcasm in a single word.

“Did you know that when I first bought this bar, paparazzi’s were practically camping out in front of the place for months, trying to stick their noses into my business and find some more dirt to write about? That’s what they’d been doing for the last decade, after all – not that I blame them for _that_ , I was an asshole back then. It’s why I hired Natasha – she’s scary in hand to hand combat. It took _years_ of me just being a boringly normal barkeeper for them to finally leave me alone completely.”

“I’m actually not really up to date on what exactly your reputation is supposed to be – I never pay much attention to celebrity lives,” he says, feeling a little uncomfortable. One of the unspoken rules in the pub is that Tony never ever talks about his past – and one doesn’t ask.

Sure enough, Tony shrugs off his implied question, face pinched. “It doesn’t matter.”

Steve sighs. Of course it matters, but they aren’t at a place where he can push the point yet.

They don’t speak of it again.

*

He’s sitting at the bar, staring into a glass of seltzer, when Pepper sits down next to him. It’s past midnight, the pub has closed, and Tony’s in the workshop – the silence is near deafening.

For a while she just looks at him thoughtfully, then she says, “When I first met Tony he was seventeen. He was the boy genius who’d graduated from MIT with sixteen, already heading Stark Industries’ research and development department, and his public life was…something of a mess. I had never met someone so quietly unhappy beneath the surface before.”

She fixes him with a stern look. He’s too surprised by this sudden volunteering of information to even try to comprehend what’s going on.

“Barely a year later his parents were killed in a car crash. He threw his work and got this bar. You asked him once – don’t look at me like that, Tony tells me things – why he isn’t building things for a living.” Her lips curl in a surprisingly forceful sneer. It looks wrong on her kind features. “You see, the company had been Howard’s, his father’s, life. He cared more about it than he ever did for Tony – and he made no secret of it. I suspect it was Tony’s way of finally getting back at him, and though he loves inventing new technological wonders he always hated working at SI. I don’t think anything could’ve kept him there after their deaths.”

When it becomes clear that she isn’t going to say anything else, Steve quietly asks, “Why’re you telling me this?”

“Because I think you should know – and Tony isn’t going to tell you.”

In truth, that doesn’t really answer his question, but he’s grateful nonetheless. Tony’s always been a sort of enigma, still is, but some things make a lot more sense now.

Ever since meeting Tony he can’t help but want to know more about him – understand him, even. In light of recent realisations that need had only strengthened.

*

A week later, Steve’s plans of action still number zero – and he’s starting to panic a little. He has to do _something_ , but what exactly that something might be still manages to elude him thoroughly. So he does the only sensible thing; he asks Pepper. Because Pepper is the unofficial go-to person for everything concerning Tony _and_ she’s a genius at planning and organizing (and after their last talk it seems like she might be on his side in this). It also so happens that Pepper is nice and approachable and he really likes her, otherwise he would never have dared to pour his heart out to her to such a degree.

Though he certainly _doesn’t_ expect her to groan in horror and bury her face in her hands after he stumblingly tells her that he thinks he might just be in love with her best friend.

Nor does he expect her to mumble, “You can’t be serious. This can’t be happening. I thought you were just…oh God.”

“Pepper?” he asks quietly, his heart sinking. “What’s going on?”

She doesn’t immediately answer, instead fixing him with a deadly serious look. “Steve, I’m only going to say this once: leave Tony alone. Even better, forget about all this and just stay friends with him.”

Steve can only stare at her, mind blank with shock. “Why?!”

Her face softens a little. “Believe me, it’s for the best. You would only end up-“

She breaks off in the middle of the sentence, her face pinched.

“I would end up…?” he prompts flatly.

“Nothing,” she sighs. “It doesn’t matter.”

But Steve is nothing if not tenacious. “But _why_? Doesn’t he like me?”

“Of course he likes you! That’s part of the problem.”

“I’m not going to hurt him, you know,” he says, frowning. It would be just like Pepper to try and keep anyone she thinks might hurt him from Tony. She’s as fiercely protective of the man as a tiger mother of her cub.

That theory is quickly shot down when she answers, clearly exasperated, “I’m not worried about _him_. I’m worried about _you_. Please, Steve, just leave it, okay?”

He can’t help the frustration born from hurt welling up in his chest. “ _Why_?”

Now she just looks pained again. “It’s not my place to tell you.”

And that’s all she will say on the matter.

To say that Steve is devastated would be the understatement of the century.

*

It only takes him about a day after that to realize that he’s a complete idiot. Or possibly simply a masochist.

That realization, of course, only deigns to drop on his head when he’s already halfway to the pub to ask Tony himself. Technically it doesn’t come too late, in theory there’s still time to turn back from this madness, yet where his heart is concerned he would have needed to realize it months ago to truly make a difference in this moment.

He sighs, steels himself, and trudges on, trying to forget that he’s going against _Pepper’s_ advice (if there’s ever been a woman who should be listened to on _all_ matters, let alone anything concerning Tony, it’s her). Did he mention that he’s quite probably stark raving mad as well? (Has there ever been a truer pun in the history of mankind?)

At least now he’s prepared for the negative reaction when it comes. Or he _thinks_ he’s prepared, at any rate. Not even envisioning the most pessimistic predictions of what could possibly happen actually prepare him for the stab of pure, unmitigated pain that lances through him when Tony’s face falls in response to his awkwardly mumbled proposal to go out for dinner sometime (it’s not the dinner’s fault, he’s sure, they have done that before, but rather the fact that he stresses that it’s to be a date in a successful attempt to avoid the confusion which would otherwise be par for the course).

“Oh Steve, why couldn’t you just let it be?” Tony asks, eyes deep with a pain that surpasses even his own.

Despite the inevitable hurt, this response does tell Steve a few things. For one, Tony likes him too, probably even _in that way_ (if he didn’t he would’ve just said so, Tony is usually rather straightforward when it comes to rejections). For another, there’s _something_ going on – and Steve has no clue whatsoever what, except that it somehow keeps Tony from wanting a relationship with him.

Tony is speaking again. “I like you, Steve, I really do. I like being friends with you. Can we please just…not _change_ things and carry on normally?”

“But why? No one’s telling me why!” He feels the burning need to mention that again.

“It doesn’t matter,” Tony answers flatly, and where Pepper sounded pained, he sounds mostly tired. In fact their responses are so similar that Steve has to wonder if everyone somehow received the same script except for him.

“Of course it matters! Everything matters and people just aren’t telling me!” he bursts out, the by now familiar frustration seeping into his words.

Tony fixes him with a serious look that somehow seems out of place on his usually open face. “Did you never stop to think that maybe there’s a _reason_ for us not doing so? This is for the best. And now will you _please_ go and, I don’t know, draw something?  I need to think.”

When Steve doesn’t move, he sighs. “I’m not trying to throw you out, Steve, I just need some time alone right now. And you _did_ just dump all this on me.”

He leaves, feeling inexplicably cold inside. He doesn’t find it in himself to draw.

*

The first week after their disastrous conversation is without a doubt the most awkward Steve has ever been forced to live through. They tiptoe around each other as if on egg-shells, both determined not to say _anything_ that could be even remotely connected to the topic of relationships. He even catches Natasha wincing at them once, and seeing as she’s basically made out of ice (with a very well-hidden molten core) that really says more than it doesn’t.

At the start of the second week Steve snaps. He has never been someone to give up easily (if at all, to be entirely honest) and his feelings for Tony decidedly _aren’t_ going away – so he decides to do something about it. He ignores the slight sense of guilt at going against Tony’s wishes; after all no one had given him a concrete reason why exactly he shouldn’t pursue him (vague statements of ‘you’re better off not doing it’ don’t really count in his book).

Thus his campaign to convince Tony to date him begins.

*

It usually goes something like this:

“Hi, Tony. How’s it going today?”

“Hey, Steve. Just fine. Did you finish that drawing for that Bostonian business bigwig?”

“Yep. It turned out pretty well, too. Do you have some outing planned for this week?”

“…No, nothing anytime soon. It’s getting busy here.”

“You should think that over again – Natasha looks like she needs some outside exercise.”

“Don’t let her hear you say that! I value your life too much to have you stupidly lose it to her wrath.”

“Does that mean you’ll come to dinner with me tomorrow?”

“ _Steve_.”

“Right. It was worth a try.”

“…”

“You do know I’m not going to give up on this, don’t you?”

“Unfortunately I’m well aware that your general penchant for tenacity is only outstripped by your stubborn and entirely irrational need to pursue lost causes.”

“You’re not a lost cause!”

“Just watch me.”

*

For weeks he nags, persists, gives (more or less broad) hints, and generally tries to convince Tony through sheer force of tenacity, but, though he can see his friend’s resolve weakening, the other refuses to budge with equal stubbornness.

They are locked in a classic stale mate, which is why Steve is justifiably surprised when he, on entering the pub three weeks into his campaign, he overhears Pepper’s voice, wafting in from the workshop, saying, “You should just tell him, Tony.”

Normally he would feel a moral obligation not to eavesdrop, but the last weeks have wearied him as much as they have Tony, and he’s desperate for any advantage new information might offer him.

Tony sounds tired again (or maybe still) when he answers, “If you hadn’t noticed, this whole mess started a month ago _because_ I can’t tell him. And you agreed with me.”

A pregnant pause follows.

“I changed my mind. Steve is obviously not going to let this go and…he might be good for you.”

Out in the bar, Steve’s heart begins to beat a little faster.

“And how exactly will this not end in heartbreak, Pepper?” Tony snaps in response, an edge to his voice that Steve has rarely heard before, even in the last few weeks.

Something unspoken must have passed, for when Pepper speaks again, her voice is oddly gentle for all its underlying pain. “Steve’s stronger than I ever was, Tony. He won’t abandon you.”

Steve is so aghast and unbelieving at the thought of Pepper _ever_ abandoning Tony to anything that he nearly missed Tony’s tender rebuttal. “You’re plenty strong, Pep. You know I hate it when you sell yourself short.”

“So are you Tony. I just want you to be happy and Steve can give you that. Everyone can see how much you love him. You shouldn’t put yourself through the pain of denying him any longer.”

Steve’s so focused on the conversation that he isn’t even aware that he’s holding his breath in nervous anticipation for Tony’s answer.

The bartender’s voice is muffled. “But for how long?”

The words themselves shouldn’t inspire as much hope as they do, but somehow they resonate with an acceptance of Pepper’s arguments, grudging and tinged with fear though it is.

Quietly backing out of the pub again, he starts hoping in earnest again.

*

Tony seeks him out at this apartment the next day (an unusual thing in itself, as he usually doesn’t like going anywhere but the pub and his own apartment, whether from fear of still being accosted by reporters or simply because he’s a private person, Steve doesn’t know), looking worn and frazzled. Steve takes one look at the slightly manic look in his eyes and sets him down on his old couch, pressing a cup of strong coffee into his hands. After that Tony seems a little more coherent, if not any less manic.

“So,” he begins, his expressive hands flitting about, restlessly alternating between fiddling with his shirt buttons and wringing his sleeves, “Pepper told me I should tell you, and, you know, I always do what Pepper tells me, especially when she starts talking in _that_ tone of voice, and anyway, I came around to her point of view, too, after thinking some more about it and-“

“Tony, you’re rambling,” Steve interrupts him gently, fearing that if he lets the other carry on like this he will never come to the point  - a point which he thinks he very much wants to hear.

Tony lets out a short puff of slightly off-key laughter. “So I am, so I am. It’s just really hard to actually…”

His voice trails off into nothingness. Steve represses a frustrated sigh. “Just tell me, Tony, please? I’ve been waiting for so long, and I just want to know why.”

 Unfortunately Tony picks up on the ill-hidden impatience in his tone. “So you desperately want to know, do you Steve?” he snaps, eyes flashing with sudden temper. “That’s how this all started, too, you just having to _know_ everything! Well, maybe it doesn’t help to know the answer! It certainly hasn’t helped me any. Do you want to know then that I have cancer? Terminal cancer? That I just have a year to live, maybe, if I’m lucky, and nothing, _nothing_ can stop it? Does it help knowing that?”

Steve is frozen. He stares at the angry tears of desperation, of _fear_ in Tony’s eyes, the lines of stress around his pinched mouth, the hopelessness in his bearing, but doesn’t _see_ , doesn’t hear anything past the ‘ _I have cancer. Terminal cancer_ ’ that echoes through his blank mind. He wonders dimly if this is what shock feels like, and then nearly laughs out loud at the inanity of that thought.

 When he regains only the slightest sliver of clarity in his mind, Tony’s standing over him (and when did he sit down anyway?), impossibly deep guilt now edged into his face along with all the other emotions, adding to the turmoil.

“I’m sorry, Steve. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have lost my temper. You would have in the very least deserved to hear it in nicer circumstances.” A shadow of a grin, too far removed from anything joyful to really classify as one, passes over his face. “Or at least not with me screaming at you. You really do deserve better.”

And before Steve can get his act together, he leans down, kisses him on the forehead in an impossibly tender gesture, and flees the room.

The bang of the door finally rouses him completely out of his shocked stupor. A curse on his lips, he hurries over to the window, frantically searching the street for a sign of Tony. But his friend is gone. Running after him when Steve doesn’t even know in which direction he left would be more than useless.

That only leaves his phone (he has had Tony on first speed dial ever since that business with the broken microwave). Holding his breath he listens to it ring, and ring, and ring, his hope that Tony would answer his phone slowly dying with every second, only to be extinguished completely when the call goes through to the voicemail.

Hearing the familiar drawl loosens something in his chest, emotional pain flooding his entire being at the reminder that Tony, his Tony, who finally seems willing to acknowledge the thing between them, _is going to die_. Grief threatens to eclipse his thoughts, but the overwhelming need to talk to Tony _now_ , to reassure him and comfort him as best as possible overrides even that.

In a desperate last ditch attempt to reach his love, he sends a text.

*

_It doesn’t matter.  
 - Steve_

*

And waits.

He never sends texts when he can possibly help it, hates texting in fact, because everything that one could say in a text one could also say during a phone call, or even better, in person. He will, however, do anything to get through to Tony right now, even talk about matters in writing that really should only be discussed face to face.

His heart stops for a second at the sound of the quiet bing of a received response.

*

_Of course it matters  
 – T_

*

Now that he knows that he has Tony’s attention Steve takes his time to reply properly.

*

_You’re right, it does, but that doesn’t  
change the fact that I love you and  
care about you and want to help  
you regardless.  
 - Steve_

*

_Do you have any idea what you  
would be getting yourself into?  
Relationships aren’t meant to   
be founded on the knowledge   
that your partner is going to  
die  
 - T_

*

_It wouldn’t be. It would be  
founded on my emotions,  
Tony.  
 - Steve_

*

_In the end that won’t make a  
difference  
 - T_

*

_Yes, it will! This is about making  
the best out of a bad situation –   
and helping you to be as happy   
as possible for as long as possible.   
If you can honestly tell me that   
you feel nothing for me and don’t  
like my company, I WILL drop it.  
 - Steve_

*

_…I can’t.  
 - T_

*

_Then let me do this.  
 - Steve_

*

_Why?  
 - T_

*

_Because I love you. And that’s  
the truth. Please don’t insult  
me by asking if I’m sure.  
 - Steve_

*

_Wasn’t going to. You usually  
only say things you mean.  
 - T_

*

_...Would you do me the honour  
of accompanying me to dinner  
tomorrow, Tony?  
 - Steve_

*

_I think I would like that.  
 - T_

*

Steve collapses onto the couch, phone slipping from suddenly boneless fingers. It’s done. He’s gotten what he wanted, has fixed the situation as much as humanly possible. With all possible action taken, only one thing remains.

Burying his face in his hands he weeps. He weeps for a future which they will never get to share fully. He weeps for opportunities lost, for hopes crushed, for the unfairness of it all. He weeps for life. He weeps for Tony. He weeps, an outpour of grief, until only love remains – and a grim determination to do everything in his power to make the rest of Tony’s life as happy as he can make it.

*

Steve is watching the slow, languid fall of coloured leaves. Even threatened by the impending onset of winter, sitting on a cold bench in the chill air, Central Park is beautiful, made even more so by the man sitting next to him, curling into his warmth.

Tony’s lost weight in the last few months, to the point that Steve can feel far too many of his bones with his arm wrapped around the smaller man and by now he’s nearly perpetually tired, but when he looks down at his face and meet’s Tony’s gaze, still possessed of that sparkling intensity and intelligence, he can still see warmth, and even happiness, in the other man.

“Thanks for bringing me here, Steve. I needed to get out for a while,” Tony says quietly.

Steve smiles in response. “You’re welcome, Tony. Always.”

If he’s learned one lesson in the past year, he muses as he hugs Tony a little closer, it would be that there’s happiness to be found in every situation, however impossible it might seem at first.

 


End file.
